


struck

by thesaddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Chicago White Sox, Crack, Detroit Tigers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-18
Updated: 2011-07-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:56:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Justin slips out of the back of the bar and pulls out his cell phone, intending to call a cab to come pick him up.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	struck

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://mlbanonmeme.livejournal.com/1218.html?thread=62402#t62402) at [](http://mlbanonmeme.livejournal.com/profile)[**mlbanonmeme**](http://mlbanonmeme.livejournal.com/).
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

Justin slips out of the back of the bar and pulls out his cell phone, intending to call a cab to come pick him up. He’s got a million numbers on speed dial; he has to have a cab service too, right? Thing is, he’s kind of - okay, a lot - drunk and his damned clumsy thumbs are hitting all the wrong buttons. He thinks he calls up his grandma back home in Goochland, but then again, he’s not too sure, just mumbles “Sorry, wrong number,” and hangs up quickly.

Creaky hinges badly in need of an oil _scree_ painfully and send a shiver down his spine, but he doesn’t bother looking up to see who it is. It’s hard enough to thumb through his contacts while looking at his phone; doing it while looking at whoever just stepped out of the bar would be damn near impossible.

“Hey.”

Justin gets to _Checker Cab_ in his contacts and fist-pumps. “ _Yes_.” He presses the button and holds the phone up to his ear, feeling warmed over with victory. It only takes him a couple minutes to call for a cab and once he’s done, he tucks his phone in his pocket.

“I said, _hey_.”

The guy sounds pissed, so Justin finally looks over and squints at his hazy, vaguely human-shaped direction. He really doesn’t want to get in a brawl in a dark alley behind a bar. It wouldn’t look good and he probably wouldn’t come out on the right side of things, anyways. He’s a lover, not a fighter.

“Yeah?” Justin scratches at the inside of his elbow. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you hay’s for horses?” He laughs at his dumb joke and thinks, _Damn, that was_ good.

The guy makes a dismissive noise and moves closer, footsteps shuffling, zombie-like. Or, at least how Justin has always imagined zombies would shuffle-step. “How much you have to drink?”

“Just enough,” Justin says, holding his hands about a basketball’s width apart.

The guy laughs. “I could give you a ride.”

“You don’t know where I live. And I’d never tell you anyways,” Justin says, laughing. He leans back until his shoulder blades hit solid brick. “Mom said never to go home with strangers.”

“I’m not a stranger,” the guy says. “Shit, you must be _wasted_.”

Justin shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Not _that_ wasted.”

“Wasted enough not to recognize the guy you struck out for number one thousand?”

Justin looks at him then, _really_ looks at him: spiky, obviously bleached blond hair, beakish nose, tiny mouth, weak chin, and a goatee that’s less a goatee than it is chin pubes. “Fuck,” he exhales, slumping back against the brick wall, “Pierzynski?”

Pierzynski’s eyebrows shoot up in faux surprise and he gives Justin a slow, sarcastic round of golf applause. “Ding, ding. We have a winner.”

Justin reaches up and grinds the heels of his fists into his eyes. “Fuck me.”

“Didn’t know you were into that,” Pierzynski snarks, and Justin can hear the mocking laughter on his tone.

Who the fuck does he think he is, anyways, mocking Justin? Justin struck him out, for fuck’s sake, made him his one thousandth strikeout like Pierzynski had said. He’d fucking made Pierzynski his _bitch_. Justin scrubs his hands in his hair and tugs at it helplessly.

“Fuck you, Pierzynski. Seriously, just. Fuck you.” Justin drops his arms at his sides and groans.

“For a guy that just notched a career milestone, you sure are a fucking sad sack of shit,” Pierzynski says, snorting softly.

“I’m not _sad_. _Jesus_ ,” Justin snaps, glaring at him. “Wasn’t expecting to get propositioned by the opposing team’s shitstain of a catcher, _sorry_.”

Pierzynski moves closer, putting his hands on his hips. “What’d you call me?”

“You heard me,” Justin says, flippantly.

Pierzynski reaches out and gives Justin a shove in the shoulder. “Couldn’t hear you so well the first time. You’ll have to speak up.”

Justin knocks his hand away. “Careful with my shoulder.”

Pierzynski reaches out and shoves him lightly again. “Or what?”

“I’ll make you sorry you were ever born,” Justin counters, face flushing in embarrassment at the lameness almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth.

“Likely story, string bean. You wouldn’t be able to handle me,” Pierzynski says, smirking and dropping his hand anyways. “Dare you to try.”

Justin pushes the sleeves of his shirt up and balls his hands into fists. “I never turn down a dare.”

“Did you steal that line from a Vin Diesel movie,” Pierzynski asks, corner of his mouth ticking up.

“Fuck you.” Justin punches him hard in the chest and immediately regrets it; Pierzynski’s definitely stronger than he gave him credit for being, not all flab like Justin had been expecting. He shakes his hand out, fingers stinging like he’d wrapped them around a handful of angry bees.

“Nice try.” Pierzynski rubs at his chest, still smiling. Justin really wishes he could punch it off his face. “Who taught you to hit? Your girlfriend?”

“Shut up about my girlfriend,” Justin mutters, flexing his fingers. He gives silent thanks to whatever deity might be listening that he punched with his left hand and not his right.

“Oh, sorry. Didn’t realize you were that sensitive about Porcello.”

“Dude,” Justin says, leaning back heavily against the brick wall, “not cool.”

A smirk slashes across Pierzynski’s face. “Hit a little too close to home?”

Justin scowls. “You wish, Pier- _shit_ -ski.”

“Good one. Did you come up with that all on your own?” Pierzynski steps closer, nearly shoving that stupid smirking face of his right in Justin’s.

“Yeah. Unlike some people in this alley, _I_ went to college.” Justin refuses to back down, refuses to give a single inch to this weak chinned asshole.

“And I’ve got a World Series,” Pierzynski counters.

They stand there like that, an inch - not _even_ \- between them. You probably wouldn’t even be able to get a shoehorn between them and any second now, Justin thinks, someone will be throwing punches. He already threw the first one, though. He’ll let it be Pierzynski this time.

Pierzynski doesn’t throw a punch, though. It all gets so much weirder than that because, suddenly, Pierzynski is even closer and then his mouth is on Justin’s, warm and wet.

Justin’s brain catches up a few interminably long seconds later when he realizes one of Pierzynski’s hands is fisted in the front of his new Affliction tee. Justin jerks back, mind whirling - and since when was the wall located _there_? He rubs at the back of his head and winces.

“Jeez, didn’t realize I was that bad a kisser,” Pierzynski snorts.

Justin keeps rubbing at the back of his head and then smoothes down the spiky, gelled hairs there. “It wasn’t bad, it’s just -” He waves his hand. “Dark alley, downtown Birmingham. Not really conducive to hot makeout sessions. Plus, making out with the enemy is a line I’m not about to cross.”

“You already crossed it,” Pierzynski points out.

“Yeah, well, I’m uncrossing it,” Justin says, rubbing his slightly sticky fingers on the front of Pierzynski’s shirt, leaving a smear of gel across his chest.

Pierzynski pulls a face, wrinkling his nose and wiping at his shirt. “What the fuck? Gross.”

Justin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pen and his bar tab. He turns it over and scribbles his cell number down before passing it over to Pierzynski and shoving it in his hand. “My number,” Justin says, feeling obvious.

Pierzynski looks down at it briefly and tucks it in his pocket. “I’m not gonna call you.”

“I know,” Justin says. His cell phone starts vibrating in his pocket and pulls it out, flipping it open and looking down at the screen; his cab is finally here. “Gotta go.”

“Yeah, see ya,” Pierzynski replies, heading back toward the door in the wall marked with a flickering red exit sign.

Justin pushes past Pierzynski for the street, where the sleek yellow cab is waiting for him. As he’s about to get in, his phone starts vibrating again and he flips it open.

> **text from: Piershitski**  
>  _received 4/24/2011 00:45_  
>  c u tmrw. were gonna finish what we started.

Justin climbs into the cab and pulls the door shut behind him, smirking to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


End file.
